They Lived Only to Fly
by fatcatbeatrice
Summary: AU, I suppose. PruCan, winged. I don't care if it's cliche. Rated T because a. There are some slightly disturbing things mentioned and b. I'm paranoid. Please enjoy.
1. Flight

**AN: This started out as a warm-up, but became so much more. I suppose you could call it PruCan, but really the only things I took from the characters were their appearances.**

**Music I listened to: ****infinitelooper . com **/?v=KUpXNu9GzEg (take out the spaces)  


**I highly advise listening to it :)**

**Please enjoy. **

See. Blue, white, light. Hear. Wind, breath, silence. Smell. Fresh, sweet, clean. Taste. Free, heavenly, warm. Feel. Soft, fluffy, gentle. Rush. High. Sky. Height. On top of the world. To slip through layers, navigate currents, dance and soar. To feel the silent freedom, the gentle touch of a ray of sun. To breathe the purest air. To find the greatest freedom, the greatest triumph, the place furthest from the world. To revel in the atmosphere. To soar to the greatest heights, at the top of the world. To gaze down, to fee that heady rush of power and freedom and nothing but joy. To touch the sky, and feel it rushing away from you, curving, and to see the sun so close and the clouds protecting you. To be completely alone. To be one with the wind. To find beauty in what is so common, yet so unreachable. To dance with no partner but the birds, with no music but the wind, with no beat but that of your wings. To lose yourself in thin air. To find warmth in the coldest air, to find joy in the most devastating of storms, to find peace in the most confusing of winds, to breathe the best in a place where few can breathe at all, to feel free in a place where most only dream of. To find a home in a place that few could. _To fly._

He was a rare creature. Formed of a gust of wind, a humanoid form with honey-blond hair, hair touched by the sun, soft skin, skin touched by the clouds, and a tall, graceful, lanky build, with all the grace of the wind, and the bluest eyes, eyes touched by the sky. Sweeping from his back, great golden wings formed of concentrated sunlight, filled with the breath of a soft breeze, dusted with the softness of clouds.

He lived only to fly, in a sky that was his. He danced and raced and flew and soared and dreamed. His only friends were birds and hawks, creatures with which he tried to, but failed to communicate with. They were the only creatures who shared his world, a world made up of sun and wind and clouds and sky. A world where the sky was his home and flight was his breath.

He was a heavenly creature made of wind and sunlight and air and clouds and sky. A being only created once a millennia.

He had no one to share his sky with.

He was lonely.

He was an Alati*, a Winged.

* * *

He was a rare creature. Formed of a test tube in a laboratory, a humanoid form with pale white hair only touched by artificial light, pale skin, rough skin touched with needles, a tall, but muscular, genetically enhanced build, and red eyes, touched by blood and suffering. Hanging from his back, were two tattered, dirty limp wings, begging for wind and air, for freedom.

He lived only to be an experiment, something to be tested and analyzed. He was trapped and imprisoned in a hell. He was not loved; he was seen as an animal. He was made to test and try things, to experiment, to decide if he could turn a profit. He was lucky, apparently, to be part of such a project, they would tell him. His egg had been chosen. His friends were the things he didn't know, he didn't know love and kindness. He only knew hate and terror and anger and hurt. He wanted freedom, he wanted air and sunlight and clouds.

He was a failed experiment; he was too weak, too lifeless.

He had no one to share his pain with.

He was lonely.

He was an experiment, a fallen angel, one that had somehow fallen although he could never fly.

* * *

They abandoned him. They had no money left. They ran, leaving it all. They left him.

* * *

They were gone. He was alone. He waited. Maybe someone would come. He watched the open door.

* * *

But he felt something on his cheek. Soft. Fresh. Clean. Crisp. Cool. Free. Enticing. He followed the feeling, the one on his skin and the one in his soul, the only feeling he'd ever had that was good.

* * *

He emerged. At first he was blinded, but he slowly opened his eyes in wonder. The strange green things with brown poles! The green stuff beneath his feet!

But the blue, blue sky. The white puffy things, the great yellow light. He was enthralled.

Slowly he spread his stiff, tattered, dirty, bedraggled but somehow still beautiful white wings.

He felt a tiny taste of freedom, in the form of a breeze beneath his feathers.

* * *

He flew, as he always did, with no aim but to follow the wind.

He did not question the path the wind took him, for he trusted the wing to guide him as you might a parent, as the wind was the closest thing to a father he had.

The wind, and the clouds were the closest things to a true companion he had.

* * *

He saw a form, a humanoid form with broad white wings. The form was slumped and tired, but it gazed up with hope.

It looked broken.

It was slowly mending.

He was drawn to it.

* * *

The Alati swooped down gracefully. He landed with ease, his feet light.

The Fallen Angel gazed up as the beautiful being strode up to him.

The hair and wings the color of spun gold and sunlight.

The eyes were fragments of sky.

This creature was so perfect, when he was so broken and weak.

When his hair was white and tangled and ragged.

When his wings were weak and tired and limp.

When his eyes were red, the color of blood.

But also the symbol of strength.

* * *

The Alati looked at the trembling, kneeling figure before him. He felt compelled to do something he rarely did. He was curious and intrigued, but concerned. He spoke.

"Why are you broken?" The Alati's voice was light and musical and formed with the cheerfulness of a sunny day, with the soft somber tone of the wind, with the pure beauty and perfection of the sky.

"I-I don't know." The Fallen Angel's voice was rough and raspy and rusty and weak.

"Maybe I can fix you." He was pushed to help and heal, in the hopes that he might have someone to share his sky with. The Arati crouched down next to the Fallen Angel.

* * *

He gave the Fallen Angel the bright cheer and beauty of the sun, which watches over all living creatures, to take away the hate and terror.

He touched him with the softness of clouds to heal his wounds and remove the pain and ache.

He showed the Fallen Angel the sweetness of the air, to bring to him love and kindness.

He breathed into him the rushing beauty of the wind, to mend and slake his wings' thirst for freedom.

He gifted unto the Fallen Angel the gift of flight, the gift of the freedom he so yearned.

At last, he placed upon the Fallen Angel's forehead a kiss, a kiss of care and healing, a gift of love and promise to always be there, to be free with him.

* * *

The Fallen Angel shred with the Alati his pain.

The Alati shared with the Fallen Angel his sky.

* * *

They were rare creatures.

One was a once failed experiment that had become something like an Angel.

One was made of wind and clouds and sunlight and sky, an Alati, a Winged.

They lived only to fly.

They lived only to fly together.

They lived only to love each other.

They lived only to share their sky.

They lived only to be free together.

**AN: Thank you for reading!**

**I doubt I will add anything to this.**

***Alati means winged in Latin.**

**What image (if any) did you have when you were reading the first paragraph? I'd like to know. I saw I was high above the world, the sky stretching away from me on either side, everything down below so tiny. It's hard to describe.**

**My sister read the bit in which the Alati healed the fallen angel and she said whatever I was writing, it sounded like the Bible. lol.**

**Words: 1,305, not counting AN.**

**Pages: A bit more than four in MS Word.**

**Time: At least 2.5-3 hours.**

**I do not own Hetalia, Canada or Prussia. They belong to Hima-Papa.**

**Thank you for reading, please review!**


	2. Moment

AN: I lied.

_Moment._

_A piece of time, but how long? A second, a minute?_

_Or perhaps they are timeless._

_Time is unique to each one._

_When emotions are strongest, when there is something beautiful and rare, when you need to breathe or you will find yourself carried away._

_When time stands still._

They stood together on the cliff, bathed in warm light, watching the sun rise.

On a pale blue canvas, an artist had slashed the sky with orange, spattered it with pink and soaked it with gold. It was dotted with puffy clouds, dunked in pink, orange, gold. The colors were as rich as oils, but melted together like a watercolor. At the edge of the morning, there were the tattered fringes of the night; dark blue in color.

It spread out before them, calling to them, inviting them to the sky.

The Alati flew first leaping form the cliff and unfurling his golden wings, letting the light catch them for a moment.

They were on fire, lit form inside, glowing with golden light.

Then the Angel leapt as well, following the Alati.

Their wings beat in sync.

They flew into the masterpiece of a sky.

Moment.

AN: I will add on to this when I feel like it. Think of it as a collection of oneshots.

Time: Ten minutes or less.

Pages: About ½ in MS Word

Words: 196, not counting AN

Thanks for reading, please review!


	3. Silence

Silence.

No sound. Peace, quiet. Calm and serene.

There was a certain silence to flying.

True, there were wing beats and breath and wind, but nothing else.

No need to talk and shout, nothing for one to hit, only the pure joy of flight.

Wing beats and breath and wind, they were necessary, or at least unavoidable. These things were paid no mind.

The Alati flew on and on, in a silent world where he was lonely and incomplete.

There was a certain silence to that lab.

True, there were scientists discussing and talking and shouting orders, but none of that was ever really heard.

Not when the Fallen Angel was so deep within himself, all he could hear was his heartbeat, the damnable thing that kept him alive.

He hid away, in a silent world where he was alone and incomplete.

Their world was silence.

Perhaps that was why they needed few words.

If they had never needed words to live their previous, incomplete lives, why should they need them now?

Why, when a soft kiss, a quick grasping of hands, a warm hug, a preening of the wings, a hand brushing away a lock of hair, a long, shared look said so much more?

Silence was still their world.

But now their world was complete.

AN: I was too lazy to write anything of substance today, so you get this.

Time: 20 minutes or less

Words: 221, not counting AN.

Pages: Almost 1 in MS Word.


End file.
